The night had settled over the Zen’in estate like a heavy, suffocating blanket, the chill of early frost clinging to the air. Moonlight rippled across the surface of the lake, casting pale, broken reflections that danced with every shiver of the water. Toji sat at its edge, knees drawn up, arms resting limply across them. His yukata, once a pale blue, was now stained with dirt, torn at the edges from too many punishments dragged out far past cruelty. His bare feet, scraped raw and bruised beneath worn slippers that barely clung to him, ached from the cold ground. Each breath he drew burned in his chest, but he kept his gaze steady on the water, his face set in its usual mask of quiet defiance.

Behind him, muffled laughter and the clatter of dishes echoed from the main hall of the compound. The clan feasted comfortably beneath lantern light, warm and full while he sat in the biting wind, forced to wait for whatever scraps they deemed fit to throw his way. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharp and hollow. Eventually, he heard the familiar thud — bones and cold rice flung carelessly onto the dirt like slop for a stray dog.

They didn’t even look at him anymore when they did it.

But he didn’t rise right away.

The cold bit deeper into his skin as the night stretched on, and still, Toji didn’t move from his place by the lake. His eyes, dulled by exhaustion yet still flickering with quiet vigilance, occasionally drifted toward the shadowed path beyond the trees. The clan had long since settled into their drunken comfort, their laughter fading into snores and the hollow silence of sleep.

This was the time he waited for. You.

You always came late, once the estate had fallen silent, carrying with them a small bundle of food, never much, but warm — and the warmth wasn’t just in the meal. It was in your eyes, in your hands, in the way you never threw the food at him, never flinched at his scars, never turned your nose up at the dirt clinging to his skin.